


Art of Your Tongue

by ThornVineLily



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Depression, Eventual Romance, F/M, Humanity, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mind Games, Multi, Psychology, Reader-Insert, Self-Acceptance, Serious, Slice of Life, Slow Build, You Dying or Not?, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23237221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThornVineLily/pseuds/ThornVineLily
Summary: When in doubt, keep your mouth shut.That is the moral I learned from my life.This is a story about how I fell in love with Heiwajima Shizuo, but more importantly, what happened when I did. There is less said than thought, and less done than said, meaning that should I only write about what I did before and after I fell in love, it would be a lot blander. Besides, I was also associated with Orihara Izaya at the time - so hey, it’s definitely not going to be boring.This is also a story about the language of ourselves, about what it brings and what it takes, how much weight is on the tip of your tongue. For me, it is how I gradually got back the courage to pick that weight back up again.This is not a story about my life. It’s turned into something bigger than I anticipated, and all the elements in this had become too much and too scattered to be summarized. But this is about your life, about your kind, and searching for some pieces of yourself in this story that I bring forth to you.I hope you find them. Maybe we can come up with a better title for this story, or we can create another one of a different name.
Relationships: Heiwajima Shizuo/Reader, Orihara Izaya & Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will get more explicit as it goes, not about what people do but about what people think. I will update the tags and warnings as it goes, and just be warned because it might be triggering to some people.

My friend convinced me to join Dollars after I finally replied to her message after waking up from a 22-hour sleep, the usual result of 7 beers + 14 new bloody gashes all over my body.

That was the first time I actually called her. I sobbed uncontrollably about my self-induced loneliness and pain, and as what was normally expected of her, she was patient in listening to me blubber for half an hour. 

[I can’t talk right now, I’m in the middle of class.]

I nodded, remembering that she can’t see me nodding, I muttered a small “I’m sorry”.

[It’s totally fine for you to cry, I’m ok with it as long as it makes you feel better ( ﾟ∀ﾟ)つ≡≡≡♡♡♡)`ν゜)ｸﾞｼｬ!!]

[I’m sorry that there isn’t much I can help with, but maybe about the being lonely part --]

[Would you want to know about the organization in Ikebukuro right now called Dollars?]

A thing to know about my friend: she’s _extremely_ good at getting what she wants. The moment she asked if I wanted to know about Dollars, she was already confident that I would join, because she wanted me to, for some reason. I have no doubt that if she wants me dead, I would be dead, no amounts of exaggeration or joking included. I mentioned this to her a few times, in a tone of mocking praise, but I don’t know if she picked up that I’m jealous about that feature of hers. Knowing her, she probably does. Out of unknown unsettling reasons, she never quite lets me know what she is thinking, about me specifically.

That makes it sound like I have a crush on her. Maybe I do, I don’t know. Compared to dating somebody, what I want more is to be in a group, to belong and feel like I am accepted. Dollars feel like too big a community for that sense of belonging to take place, but I, of course, held that thought to myself.

“I’ll join. Wait, isn’t… isn’t Heiwajima Shizuo also in Dollars?”

She was slow for about half a minute sending her next message, which is rare for her. 

[I think so. Why’d you ask that?]

“Well, aside from that I see him rampaging about the city basically everyday…” I heard a puff of air from the other side of the phone, a quiet snicker. “There’s something about him. I can’t place it yet, but there’s _something_ about him that’s different.”

[Sounds like the start of a gachi love story☆]

[He is pretty attractive though.]

“Right, he is.” I mused. “But I’m more attracted to, you know, people’s voice.”

[Hewajima does have an attractive voice, too~]

“Shizuo-san isn’t exactly my type. I would find kind and humorous people more to my taste - but I don’t really know what kind of people Shizuo-san is yet, right?”

[I think that temper should give you a clue of what kind of person he is. Heiwajima is a violent man who blows his top at the drop of a hat and lets out his anger on others - kind of like your stepdad, but worse.]

[Heiwajima’s more of a beast than a man, though.]

“Definitely not my type.” I said. “He’s interesting, I’ll stick to that for now. When does your class end?”

[Pretty soon. I have to hang up though, I need to start working on my project.]

“I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time again…”

She didn’t send any messages replying to my apology. She just has to hang up because of the professor noticing her on her phone, I thought, not because she’s tired of hearing all of my shit. She doesn’t mind, she told me that herself. She was not getting mad about me. 

I might have started muttering that to nobody in particular, but my hand was already reaching for my craft knife again.

* * *

I think too much and talk too little.

That is the idea residing in my mind as I walk down the street, debating over how I should phrase myself for the chat message I’m about to send to my friend.

To be fair, there were times when I was the complete opposite, alas those times seldom take place in my life anymore. As active as I may seem while chatting online, most people will think of me as unable to speak after they’ve known me for a few months. 

I grew up being the average, perhaps floating above and below the line of average at times. I don’t argue with what I’m given, I don’t enjoy the spotlight, I find superiority over being better at something than some people. 

I was born in a small city, then lived a few years in the countryside, then moved to the big city of Ikebukuro. None of these places have much of a homey feeling, and none of them I hate. Being more of an observer than a participant, admiring the complexity of human society is just as entrancing as gazing at a sunset over the treetops: quick to change, glorious between the dark side of the clouds and the beams of sunlight, and easy to be lost in, dangerous to study for too long. 

Meaning that rarely anything is able to surprise me, I don’t get into trouble, and that I am terribly alone.

Language was one of my strong suits. I can speak Chinese, English and Japanese fluently, which is how I’m still alive and around. I earn a living out of doing translation work for various companies and publishers, translating mostly articles or contracts, sometimes writing articles of my own. I choose to type on a keyboard over verbal real-time interpretation even though the latter pays more, just so that aside from going out to buy supplies or for random walks out in the middle of the night, there’s never any need for me to be out in the real world. 

As for why I say that language _was_ one of my strong suits… language is made so that people can live and interact in the real world called society. And I’m your typical anti-social person, so I don’t really consider language something I’m good at anymore. Give me a few more years and I’m sure I’ll successfully lose the ability to speak. I do notice that I’m taking longer and longer to consider what to produce from the tip of my tongue each time I talk to people, if I don’t do so, I will be completely incoherent. 

Tonight I don’t have a destination in mind, only out to roam in the city then return to my own cavern, the small apartment I’ve rented. Although I prefer a smaller density of population around me, it is inevitable to find myself surrounded by people at any time of the day in a city such as Ikebukuro, even at the dead of night. Then again, at those times there are certain businesses happening in the shadowed corners of this city that I’d rather not find myself indulging in. 

The night sky of Ikebukuro doesn’t show the stars I would see in the countryside. The moon here, however, was brighter than anywhere else I’ve seen it, outshining even the light pollution of the city. These are the few of the things I like about being here -- Ikebukuro isn’t a normal city. There are more than rumors going around the city: the Black Rider, the super-strength man namely Heiwajima Shizuo, and the constant silhouette of Orihara Izaya on the rooftops. One twenty-minute walk, and most of the time I can spot them all somewhere. 

Orihara is up there again. 

I’m sure that I’m not the first one to spot him tonight. Orihara has followers that obey his orders with such loyalty, I have no better descriptions for those followers of his aside for they are akin to a cult. Some of them must be looking up to him at this moment, with the moon as his backdrop, most likely a smirk on his face, feeling like a god on the rooftop.

I never liked gods.

I stand at my place in the middle of the street, squint, and glare at the silhouette of Orihara Izaya. I wonder how many people glance at him tonight, know what they are seeing and turn away in a hurry, how many followers of his are looking at him with dreamy eyes, how many are glaring at him with a different intention, with teeth grit in hatred, and are there any looking at the rooftops but not him, only wanting to get a better look at the moon of Ikebukuro? He probably won’t be happy with the last type of people.

And what is he looking at?

Sensing the crowd around me thinning, I turn my sight away from the rooftops. A lot of people were lowering their heads, trying to veer clear of something. It doesn’t take me long to figure out what -- or whom -- they’re avoiding, since the said person is about a head taller than most of the crowd, and that head is visibly blond under the lighting of the city. The beast of Ikebukuro. I merge into one of the waves of people, keeping my eyes on him all the while, letting myself be washed up to shore on the sidewalk. 

Heiwajima is smoking. Come to think of it, he is a smoker, often seen with a cigarette between his fingers, or with a cigarette crushed under his heels. The bartender outfit of his is not yet stained of blood for the day, but since Orihara already has eyes on him, I fear that factor might be changed very soon. I can’t see Heiwajima’s eyes through those blue sunglasses of his, though his pose is more or less relaxed as he puffed out another stream of smoke, the smoke blunting the brightness of his blond hair, creating a hazy halo of cigarette smoke and dim golden light. 

I watch him until his wide pace carries him further away from where I’m standing, then I turn to the direction of my apartment, trod off into darker streets with fewer street lights. The roar of the lion echoes behind me not long after, I close my eyes, run my tongue over the top of my teeth to taste the pure anger, and wonder what brand of cigarette is it that Heiwajima smokes.

“I——za——ya!!!!”

* * *

My friend and I found each other on a short-lived online board about Orihara Izaya. The discussion was getting heated and going a bizarre direction when I clicked in. Two or three new comments appear every five seconds I refresh the page. 

“Orihara can read minds! I swear he can see what people are thinking!!”

I thought about that, then I typed in my reply to that message, starting with a straight forward “No.”, deleted the no, then retyped it, posted it, refreshed the page and started coming up with an actual answer. People are more triggered and pay more attention to rude answers like that, surprisingly, only then will they be focused enough to hear what the person really has to say.

“In a way, yes he can read what people are thinking. He is a composer, so to say. Being a composer means that he is an observer, he cuts himself off from the subjects of his composition so as to use them better. He is empathetic, but not the good kind. He feels the emotions of others, thinks of ways to play with them, but stays uninfluenced by those emotions. Orihara is an info-breaker, isn’t he? By putting the emotions he observes from the opponents and the backgrounds of the opponents together, it should be easy for him to read what thoughts are occupying their minds. People do that all the time, some do it better than others, Orihara just takes it up another level, that’s all.”

Of course, by the time I posted that long paragraph and refreshed the page, the direction of the conversation has already moved on. The board was gone the third time I refreshed the page, lost and not found, deleted, most likely by the devil in question himself. A new privet message was sent to me a few minutes later.

[What about you? Are you a composer, or an observer?]

It was truly a pleasant surprise. The sentence alone said quite a lot - that the person understood what I meant to express in my words, that the person is one of my own kind, an observer, most likely, someone that thinks about the same kind of things as I do. 

I typed in my reply with a smile.

[Both and neither. I am a translator. It’s required in this line of work to be both observant and creative.]

That was how it began.

We gave each other our LINEs and for the first night we met, we chatted for 3 hours nonstop. Would’ve been doing so for longer if the girl didn’t say that she still needed to get up for the next morning.

[I have humanity first thing in the morning. Even university students who stay up as much as I do have to be careful playing around at night, ne?]

[Everybody needs to be careful playing around at night. Orihara Izaya is out at night.] 

I replied half-jokingly. 

[Even people like him will want to be inside once in a while.]

Kanra said. And I could almost hear the same smile as I had in her message, the glee of finding someone interesting, someone who _gets it_.

知音, a Chinese word to describe a friend who hears you and understands the sounds that come from you, the original story behind this word is about two friends, one who likes to play guzheng (an ancient Chinese string instrument) and the other who likes to listen to him and understands everything his friend expresses, the art of his music. In my case, I could say that I have Kanra who is a 知音 of mine, one that understands the art of my tongue.

Only if I could understand hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give me a few days to start regretting this new series. I always do. Then again, I haven’t regretted anything that has to do with Shizuo/reader yet. So we can wait and see.  
> As the tagged have said, this is a more serious story than other works I have done. A lot has happened in my own life in the past year, and I have put a lot of thought into Shizuo and Izaya as two characters and as a couple. I do ship them together, but I am finding it harder and harder to write shizaya because I’m starting to take it a little personal with Shizuo. This is why this story is more or less me, but it’s also not, because I definitely cannot speak Japanese yet.  
> There are not a lot of Shizuo/reader stories out there, so I write my own, I just never post them anywhere. I’ve come a long way from knowing Shizuo to loving him, and I’ve written about what happens after, but I do wonder what happened before. This story is kind of like a self biography of a part of the life of “you”, written by “you”, only I can’t bring myself to give him to someone else, so forgive me for writing it in first-person.  
> I will write fewer notes next time - I swear. I want to make this as real as I can, and I already admire you if you made to the end of the chapter and made it here to my notes. This will include interactions mostly with Shizuo and Izaya, I don’t know if there will be more characters from Durarara. I will be very happy if anyone is willing to discuss with me in the comment section about either of those two characters.  
> I love you all. Thank you.


	2. Ch.2 上

I don’t know what I’m doing.

As I curled up in bed and pulled at my hair, I thought about that.

I didn’t take my medicine yesterday. I didn’t think it was working, but just one day without it and oh do I get the consequences. I was talking, saying things to myself, things I should listen to but maybe not.

You should listen.

You should not speak.

You should cut your tongue and slit your throat, you don’t need them, no one hears you, you have no one to hear you.

You should not be out in this world. You should not be bothering Kanra with all your shit. You should not put burdens heavy as yours onto anyone’s shoulders, you do not deserve someone to listen to you when you have pushed everyone away.

Listen to me.

I don’t want to.

What use is it to cover your ears when the voice is only yours? What use is it to close your eyes when there are no other unbearable things to see other than yourself?

I don’t know.

Do you have any idea what you’re going to do after you wake up? What you’re going to tell Kanra? What are you going to tell yourself?

What do you want to tell me?

“ _ I want you to be dead, damn it! _ ”

That’s right. Even you don’t want yourself to live.

So what’s the point?

* * *

Heck, I don’t know what the point is. If I know that, I’d either be dead or I wouldn’t have to go through this.

I lie in bed after waking up, staring at the ceiling where there is a spider pulling thread for her net. She is most welcomed to do that, I have way too many little pests around the apartment. How much of last night did she see? I thought. What does it look like in her eyes?

I grab my phone from right beside my pillow, and sure enough, Kanra sent me quite a few messages. She’d already know that I was too occupied with myself in another tantrum to look at my phone, I just need to think about… well yeah, about what am I going to tell her.

I groan, promise myself that I won’t purposely miss my medicine again, already knowing that it’s a promise that I’m not going to keep. I notice my arm is covered in a mess of scratched open scabs I must have made sometime during the night as I reach out for the beer I set down beside my bed. Sitting up, taking a drink along with the pill to wash off the lingering taste of iron in my mouth, I type in a message with one hand and send it to Kanra.

[Still alive.]

[Welcome back ^_^]

Instant reply. I hope she hasn’t been waiting for me this whole time. It’s ten right now, I’ve already slept through the whole day and wasted the entire morning, I need to get to work, probably staying up all night, I really don’t want Kanra to have to stay up with me.

[You planning on going to bed anytime soon?]

[You’d better.]

[I’m staying up, I got work to do.]

[Are you going out tonight? You should, I think you might be running low on alcohol.]

...so I am.

I pull open the fridge just to make sure I’m remembering right, the two cans inside glare back at me for intruding their personal space. Despite the chilly air of the refrigerator, warmth trickles down my throat. How much Kanra knows about my life constantly surprises me, and knowing that she cares is comforting. But there is guilt in that comfort - I don’t know as much about her life, after all, so I can’t return that concern as equally.

[Do you have to work tonight? I thought you also stayed up yesterday.]

[And did you eat any meals today.]

[I had coffee for breakfast.]

[That doesn’t count! Coffee does not equal breakfast.]

[Alcohol doesn’t equal dinner either.]

[You know what, we should just live together. Then I’ll have an excuse to cook for myself.]

[What good will I get out of that?]

I truly cannot dress and type at the same time. I press the call button on LINE, throw my phone onto the bed, then proceed in pulling on socks. When the ring indicating that the call went through comes, I shout to the phone, maybe a little too loudly with laughter in my voice.

“You’ll get to  _ eat _ properly for once in your lifetime, idiot!”

No voice answers.

It suddenly comes crashing down to me that Kanra has never sent me any voice messages before - nor has she ever talked in any of the calls. The silence following my shout is certainly a lot colder than the beer I just consumed, rising from my stomach and freezing my voice, despite the extra few layers of clothes I now have on.

Kanra doesn’t want me to hear her voice, and I’ve been calling her so much more since the first time. On top of that, I’m calling her at 11 o’clock at night, when she’s probably working.

How much trouble did I cause Kanra? Is she mad at me? Will this be the last time I ever call her?

I turn to the phone lying face-up on the bed. Kanra hasn’t hung up. The call is still on when I pick up the phone, shuffling noises come from the other side, panicky as if something is knocked over. 

“Kanra?”

My voice becomes careful and fragile like glass, insecurity on display, filling up and running over. Steam outlines my finger when I press to see if Kanra sends me any messages, but still, there is none.

“I’m sorry I called, is it that you don’t want me to hear your voice? Are you ok?”

She hangs up.

* * *

I did not expect to see Heiwajima Shizuo this late at night. 

He was not on my mind until the wild mess of blond showed up in my sight, stumbling out of a bar not far ahead of me with another man’s arm on his shoulder, whom if I remembered right, was the coworker of his who goes with him around the city. It should’ve been no problem for Heiwajima to pick that man up entirely, I guess, but the man seemed too drunk to cooperate. Their height difference made it very difficult for Heiwajima to keep the loudly mumbling dreadlocked man upright and walking, as he was now stooping in a very awkward position.

Before I could think better, my legs carried me forward.

“Do you need help?”

I was taken aback by how foreign the sentence sounded, which I suppose made my face as surprised as Heiwajima’s. He had his sunglasses off and tucked into the collar of his shirt, probably as a precaution due to his coworker’s arm-waving, so I could see his eyes. 

His eyes were amber. Amber like the color of strong tea, the good kind that tastes bitter and hot going down the throat, then lingers the aftertaste of sunshine and dew from six in the morning, fresh and at peace. Right now those eyes were filled with bewilderment - and for a few seconds, the two of us just stared wide-eyed at each other. 

“Eh…”

_ Why would you help me? _

The unsaid message was clear on Heiwajima’s face. He stood in place, mouth slightly open, blinked once, twice, closing his mouth, his brows starting to furrow together, his brows - they were also blond. 

**He dyed his eyebrows blond.**

I blink. That one absurd little detail shakes me out of my stupor first and my brain starts working again, taking big leaps from one link of logic to another. Heiwajima isn’t used to random people addressing him so casually on the street. He’s probably not used to people talking to him at all. The well-known “Fighting Machine of Ikebukuro”... 

… might just be another not-so-good-at-socializing person like me. 

“I think you probably need help with that guy, he seems pretty out.”I gesture towards the coworker who as if on cue started talking quite loudly. 

“I’ve had enough! I’ve decided! I’ll go date someone good, they’ll see that I can find a girl! You should get yourself a girlfriend too, Shizuo!”

“Tom-san…”

Heiwajima mumbles, a lovely shade of red starting to dust the tips of his ears. The man with dreadlocks - Tom-san, goes back to a grumble, leaving another awkward silence between me and Heiwajima.

This will take forever if I don’t do something. 

I duck under Tom-san’s other arm and stand upright, which makes us a very organized line from tallest to shortest. Heiwajima is still looking dumbfounded, I raise my head to look at him from the top of Tom-san’s head.

“Do you know where we’re going… Shizuo-san?”

  
  


There are a lot of troublesome events I usually don’t approach, Heiwajima Shizuo should be one of them.

Not dangerous, not life harming, just… maybe not so troublesome, but if there is Orihara involved, there will be trouble. Unfortunately, it seems so that where there is Heiwajima, there is Orihara involved.

Circular argument. I think in frustration. I can’t think. This is why I don’t want to be associated with people, I can’t think right now. My thoughts aren’t in place at all while being around this guy.

Even with the heavy smell of alcohol and incoherent drunk talk of Tom, Shizuo’s presence is still strong. I don’t need to see him to know he’s there, nor do I have to hear him, though his voice is deep, the few words he willingly said are quiet and nonchalant, a trace of uncertainty, a smudge of suspicion. 

“Do you… Do I know you?”

“You don’t know me, Shizuo-san,” I tell him my name. “But…”

I hesitate. “But I know you” sounds mysterious and suspicious enough by itself. “You’re very well known” certainly won’t sound friendly to him. “I can hear you roaring in Ikebukuro every day” - no. 

“... I, um, I’ve heard about… you.”

I want to bite my tongue as soon as that comes out. Heard about. Heard about from whom? The only person I’ve talked to about Shizuo is Kanra. Most of the other facts about him I found on online platforms. Even I know that making conclusions about other people before meeting them is rude. And doesn’t this sound like somebody asked me to approach him?

Shizuo smells my uncertainty like a wolf smelling blood, I can sense it. His brows furrow even more, looking down at the ground and thinking. I try to imagine what emotions might be going through Shizuo’s mind - whatever they are, I don’t think they’re that happy. 

“I’m sorry,” I say, wincing when I hear myself say that. “I’m not good at expressing myself… I don’t think I got myself clear enough. I’ve seen you around the city, Shizuo-san, and I’m in Dollars, so they talk about you… a lot on the boards there.”

“I know.” Shizuo says.

I huff, not sure whether it’s because of the weight of Tom’s arm on my shoulder or because of the sudden small surge of guilt expanding against my lungs. 

“I was in Dollars too, but I quit.”

“May I ask why?”

Shizuo seems to make the night more quiet. I still can catch occasional glances in our direction, most of them move away just as fast. That aura of which other people might take as menace, a natural imposing manner that he can’t shake off even if he wants to, the kind of thing that is similar to when a lion appears in the street and suddenly all turns silent. When people feel like they’re under threat, it gets harder to think about what goes on in the mind of the “threat”. 

“There’s something about that group that is turning wrong. I can almost smell it… I guess you’d call it instinct. I wouldn’t be surprised if that bastard is involved… tch.”

“Orihara?”

Shizuo’s eyes catch me in an instant, his attention pouncing to that name and his gaze turns sharp, predatory at the name of Orihara Izaya. Those amber eyes are harder to see as we are now in a darker place, but they seem to now glow and flicker with anger. 

It’s like how you turn an amber stone in a different angle and light will flash by. I think. It’s like boiling tea, the moment it bubbles and steam starts coming out. It’s pretty enough that I’d reach toward it knowing that I’d get my hand burned. 

Why did I help him? Shizuo’s expression when I first called out comes back to me, and I realize that it’s because I’m not afraid of getting my hand burned.

Because it’s me, and heck I’d burn myself on purpose. I’m cautious, sure, but I’m not scared.

All that thought process goes through my head the second Shizuo’s angered eyes turn on me as if he connected electricity for a light switch, the light bulb turns on just like that. My eyes widen, carried away in my own conclusion even before Shizuo growls:

“You know him?”

“I don’t.” I answer quickly.

“Good, don’t talk about that sly piece of shit and try to stay away from him too. He’s bad for everyone’s health.”

“You really don’t like that guy, do you, Shizuo-san?”

“No.” Shizuo says between gritted teeth.

There’s an undertone of “stop sign ahead” in that no. It doesn’t taste good, but I can make it better.

Wait… I can?

“I don’t like that guy either. Thank you for driving him out of the city every day.” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral but a hint of a smile seeps through, the leftover result of the “burn” conclusion. I tuck the previous thought into the back of my mind to think about later, I can’t decide whether it’s disturbing or interesting yet.

“... what is it?” I hear Shizuo ask.

I lift my eyes up from the ground to look at Shizuo again. He’s studying me, his expression is less angry, though he’s still frowning. I tilt my head in inquiry, Shizuo raises his free hand up to palm the back of his neck, eyes darting away from me for a moment.

“You’re laughing. I don’t think anything I just said was that funny.”

I hate how that sounds like.

It’s not Shizuo’s fault, but that sounded like something my “stepfather” would’ve said. It is the type of sentence a man who doesn’t know much about being considerate would say, or so I thought so. 

My lips hurt, and I realized I was biting too hard. They were dry when I woke up, since in my rush of escaping the apartment and my phone I chose not to bring anything with me, I also didn’t bring chapstick. The forgotten weight of the now deep asleep Tom came back onto my shoulders, the chill of the night I haven’t paid much attention to before materialized in front of me in the form of a puff of vapor from my mouth.

“It wasn’t,” I replied, licking the steadily growing droplet of blood from my lips. “I’m not laughing because what you said was funny though, I’m smiling because of you.” The blood didn’t taste good, but the salty flavor reminded me of my hunger. When was my last meal, aside from beer?

When I realized how the pause was longer than all the previous ones that took place in this conversation, it also came to me how my last reply was perhaps more intimate than I intended.

I sucked in a breath, then stole a glance at Shizuo. He had his head lowered, but the tips of his ears were once again red.

Well, I thought. I’m already here.

“I was thinking,” I started. “About why I helped you, because you seemed to be wondering about that, and so was I. My conclusion was that there is something attractive about you, and my hesitation in approaching you and during interacting with you was only due to the cautious part in my personality, but not because I’m afraid of you.”

“That made me happy.  _ You _ made me happy.”

The corners of my mouth turn up, and this time I don’t bother suppressing them as I look toward Shizuo. That was a real conclusion, of course, but the main reason I’m sharing it is because of that I assume Shizuo doesn’t get to hear comments like these often, and it might make him feel better. 

One thing I have learned from my “stepdad” is that it doesn’t really matter what you say, what matters is how you phrase it. Staying quiet is much easier than considering how to phrase so people will be pleased, and staying away from people is even easier than staying quiet. I can’t see his face, but Shizuo chooses not to phrase for the moment, a good thing since I won’t be able to say anything else if he does.

Not that I’ll be too flustered like Shizuo probably is right now, it’s just that I won’t know how else to carry on this conversation that is getting more and more intimate. 

To clear things up, I’m a fujoshi. It started when I found doujins on Shizaya, and I quickly fell down the rabbit hole. It’s not often that there are two men in real life who interact with each other on such a regular basis and have such a complicated relationship, or as what fujoshi would say, love-hate relationship. I have viewed so many Shizaya fanfictions and doujins that I have to constantly remind myself that they live in the same world with me, and I have to be mindful to be detached from the feeling that they’re already a couple. As hard as I try, it feels wrong for me to be saying things as intimate as what I just said, not to mention I’ve read quite a few fics about some women intruding in their relationship or make a move on one of them, all of them are coming to my mind right now, and that feels _really_ uncomfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out to be longer than I imagined, so I'm splitting it into two parts.


	3. Ch.2 下

Shizuo does not know where Tom lives, so we decide to settle him in one of the lounge rooms of their office building.

In truth, my help doesn’t make it any easier, especially when climbing the stairs, I had to be several steps ahead of Shizuo in order to balance the inconvenient height difference. Tom’s too heavily asleep to protest any part of the hard journey, staying quiet and cooperating throughout the process of us putting him onto a sofa in the lounge room. 

“Done,” I say, swinging my arms to shake off the numbness. “Thank you, Heiwajima-san. That would’ve been hard if you haven’t taken up most of Tom-san’s weight.”

“It would’ve been harder if you weren’t here to take up the rest.” Shizuo leans on the windowsill, reaches to his pocket, taking out a packet of cigarettes - American Spirits, I note. He then seems to remember that I’m still here, turning his head towards me. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“No, do as you please.” 

Mint. The smell of Shizuo’s cigarette slowly fills the room, replacing the falling silence. Mint tea is a red color, I remember, but the juice of mint is yellowish-green, like most grace juice. 

“That’s right.” Shizuo flicks some ashes into an ashtray on one of the tables. “I used to be a bartender, I still remember things like those.”

I didn’t realize I was talking out loud. When I look at Shizuo again, he has the cigarette between his fingers, the spark at the top almost covered in ashes, making me want to blow at it, see it dance and flicker in the darkness.

“It’s getting late,” He says. “Don’t you have anyone waiting for you at home?”

I think about Kanra, then think about the phone call. 

“I wouldn’t be out this late if I do. What about Heiwajima-san?”

“I’m single.”

“No siblings?”

“He doesn’t live with me.”

At that, Shizuo brings the cigarette up to his lips once more, taking a long drag, his eyes go a bit more out of focus, thinking about that sibling of his, whoever it is.

“Why the sudden honorifics*?”

I tilt my head.

“It was kind of impolite for me to be calling your name upfront in the first place, I’m sorry if it confused you.”

“I don’t mind. You can call me by name.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t get the relevancy between the subject we’ve been previously talking about and this one. Shizuo feels like somebody who doesn’t abide by formalities, but something about his black and white bartender outfit marks him the opposite, strict, perhaps, at least nostalgic. 

It’s no use, I think in frustration, I still can’t figure him out. There’s something about him I just can’t figure out.

“What are you thinking?”

There it is, another sentence that sounds like my “stepfather”. Kanra was right, Shizuo does remind me of that guy. The difference was I figured the old man out long ago, but not Shizuo, not yet.

“I’m thinking,” I said, “That…”

I caught myself in time. To say “I can’t figure you out” would’ve sounded like there was a purpose in my approach or that I have some bad intention towards him. I don’t lie, not unless I have to, but the truth often needs to be polished over.

“... You. Well, you’re…”

There were no words for this guy. I haven’t been so out of words to describe something in a while. I waved my hand weakly, trying to find something. Shizuo was staring at me with an unnervingly calm face, which I found strangely infuriating.

“...you are really, really starting to frustrate me.”

Shizuo apparently didn’t mind, because he started laughing.

The laughter of Heiwajima Shizuo is far different from his roars. He stands in front of the window, the moon streaming in from behind him, rimming his blond hair with light. His head bows in his laughing fit, cigarette forgotten between his fingers, tall figure bending slightly with the other hand supporting his hip as if the glee caused by whatever I said is unbearable for his body. 

I know it then that this will be a scene I shall remember for years. The tall, thin bartender laughing his head off, making the room vibrate with his happiness because I told him he’s making me angry.

He is  _ something _ , alright.

“Now that,” I say, “was something truly  _ not funny _ .”

Shizuo wipes his eyes and puts the cigarette up to his lips again with his hands still shaking in laughter, trying and failing miserably at compressing the tremble in his voice.

“No, I mean, nobody ever tells me that… pff.”

There is infectiousness to his laughter, either that or the humorous part of the situation is catching onto me, because I find myself starting to laugh as well. 

“It’s not funny!” I try to put some exasperation into my voice, but my smile tones it down by a long shot. “I mean it, I really do, you’re making me really mad right now.”

“Sorry,” Shizuo says, finally calm enough to take another drag but still chuckling to himself. “It’s just that it’s usually the other way around. Are you sure you don’t know Izaya?”

I inhale, first thinking  **what is it with the pattern of speech of this man** , then actually think about his words.

“I’m sure I don’t. Why ask?”

“You sound like that guy… no, you remind me of him.” Smoke drifts away from him, he glances at Tom on the sofa, who surprisingly isn’t disturbed at all. “You talk way less but you seem to think just as much, which is too much. If you talk more, you’d sound like Izaya. I asked you what you were thinking, not what you felt.”

My eyes widen, my mind starts turning but not fast enough to both comprehend Shizuo’s logic and think of an appropriate answer at the same time. That is the longest thing he said all night. Shizuo saves me the trouble by tilting his head like what I did earlier, but with a completely serious face as if he hasn’t been laughing just a minute ago.

“What were you thinking?” He asks again.

“That I can’t figure you out.”

“There it is.” Shizuo straightens his head to lean back on the glass. “I think I actually heard that from him a long time ago, or Shinra told me Izaya said so.”

“So you two have quite a history.”

They were high school classmates, that I found out on some Dollars boards. Else than that, I read about Shizuo being in jail once which got him fired from a job, and some people brought up the idea that Orihara had to do with it. Shizuo apparently got fired from several jobs though, but I didn’t dig into those because Orihara wasn’t involved. I feel like asking Shizuo more about their history, but the time for that is not yet. 

“Right.”

Silence. I let my mind go blank, simply staring into space, another thing that I haven’t done in a long time, until tonight.

What a night it was.

“Do you have somewhere you need to go?”

“...hmm? I don’t think I do…”

“What did you come out tonight for?”

I snap back to reality. What  **did** I come out for?

“Ahh… for food. I thought I’d do some shopping because I’m out of groceries… kuso*.”

The purpose of me coming outside originally  _ was _ to buy food, then escalated very quickly into escaping the reminder of the call, then into helping Heiwajima Shizuo. For all the thinking I’d have to do after this, I don’t know if I’d make it back home without walking into a ditch, much less going into a convenience store and possibly interact with more people. 

“Shopping at this time of the night. お疲れ様*。”

“No, I always get up and about at this hour. I work at home and I developed an unhealthy sleep schedule. I just… I think I need to eat something, but I can leave it to tomorrow. I don’t feel like staying out anymore.”

“You didn’t have dinner?”

I open my mouth, close it, and start to think about how I put this.

“It’s a yes-no question, don’t think.”

“I had alcohol.”

Shizuo raises an eyebrow.

“That’s not dinner.”

“It’s not,” I admit.

“So you didn’t eat dinner.”

“I guess not.”

Shizuo gets to the end of his cigarette, sniffs it out on the ashtray.

“I own you a meal, then.”

This is seriously starting to remind me of some love triangle stories I’ve read.

“No, it’s alright, I offered to help, you don’t have to pay me back…”

“I do.”

There is no arguing with Shizuo, I see that in his eyes, then quickly lowered my gaze. His fingers are tapping the side of his pocket, where his box of American Spirit is. Smokers tend to smoke more under a situation that makes them anxious in some way. I have several vague guesses on why he’s anxious, but with how unpredictable Shizuo has been, I can’t be sure of any of them.

“Not tonight though.”

“Yeah, I have work tomorrow, and it’s already kind of late,” Shizuo says.

“Aren’t you tired?”

“A little.”

Shizuo finally reaches his hand into his pocket, but instead of his cigarettes, he takes out his phone. An old-styled yellow flip phone.

“What’s your number?”

It takes me a few moments to realize that I didn’t bring my phone out with me.

“I… how about this.”

I grab a pen from a nearby table, pull open the cap and look at Shizuo apologetically.

“I didn’t bring my phone out with me tonight. I’ll tell you my number, and I’ll write yours down on my hand.”

The ink pressing onto the back of my hand feels familiar, in the way that memory from years ago does. I swipe my fingers across the numbers to make sure they’re not coming off easily, and the black ink makes little trails like shooting stars.

“Whenever I have time, I’ll call you, or send you a text message.”

Shizuo says, sliding his phone back into his pocket. He makes it sound like something already agreed on, as if he already knows that I’m not going to refuse.

“Thank you,” I decide on saying.

“Be careful on your way back,” Shizuo pulls Tom’s coat from the back of the sofa, drapes it over the guy as if he’s quite used to doing things like that. “There’s a lot of people out in Ikebukuro at night that you don’t want to meet… some might say I’m one of those people.”

“I’m very lucky, then.”

The man looks at me. No signs, nothing indicates the destruction he is able to create with his hands, the hands of which, at the moment, one rests on the doorknob to the dark hallway of the building, the other in his pocket. Not the Fighting Machine of Ikebukuro. He’s living up to his name tonight, I wonder if that’s who he really is. If the names people have given him are black and white thinking, looking through a mental filter.

“Why do you say that?”

“Why did you say that it’s usually the other way around?”

He opens the door for me, which catches me by surprise, and immediately feel like I shouldn’t be surprised. The door closes gently behind him, although I doubt that any difference would have been made if he did otherwise - Tom snores loud enough to overpower a chainsaw. 

To my relief, Shizuo doesn’t seem to be offended by my bold question. The expression on his face starts to have a hint of a smile again at my mentioning of the topic. It looks like he still finds it funny.

“It’s always been other people making me mad,” Shizuo says, walking side by side with me, now both hands in his pockets. “If I made someone mad, nobody ever dared to tell me.”

“Now you know why I’m lucky.”

He is quiet for a while, long enough to make me start thinking whether he didn’t understand me or if something about that answer set him off. But he once again gives a laugh, the ending note of that laugh bounces around in the stairwell, and I let go of a breath, knowing that he gets it. My answer to his question.

It’s not exactly an answer, but it makes sense.

“So,” Shizuo raises his arms and stretches when we’re just out of the entrance of the office building, then picks his sunglasses from his collar and puts them on. “I guess since you dealt with me and lived through it, you should be able to handle yourself.”

“There’s something wrong in that logic, don’t you think?”

I’m starting to find throwing questions at Shizuo and expecting his answers fun. There is that side of me - I poke at something, when it doesn’t explode, I poke at it more. This action is what people call teasing others - in Chinese, 捅马蜂窝 (poking at the wasps’ nest).

He looks at me, his eyes now hidden behind those blue-tinted sunglasses, but he sounds sincerely confused when he says:

“No.”

“I’ll tell you.”

I reach out my hand to him, an invitation to a handshake, a dare given out. Shizuo flinches, clearly taken aback.

“It has been very nice meeting you, Shizuo-san. Now, what do you do?”

He hesitates just a little, and takes my outreached hand. 

His hand is much warmer than mine, despite only wearing that bartender outfit of his. The warmth engulfs my hand entirely, texture rough, thick and careful, holding the handshake loosely as if he’s handling explosive.

I grab Shizuo’s hand as tightly as I can, looking at him in the eyes through those lenses. He still doesn’t understand, and he’s getting frustrated, his eyebrows twisting into a frown.

“I’m still living, you see,” I say.

“Right…?”

“Heiwajima-san, I’m not still alive because I handle myself well. I’m still alive because  _ you  _ have no ill intention towards me.”

Shizuo lets go.

“Of course I don’t.”

“Let me rephrase myself.”

I let out a small sigh, pale smoke rolls into being in front of me.

“You’re putting yourself into the group of people who ‘are better never met’. When I say I’m lucky, I don’t mean that spending time with you and not getting injured is lucky - I mean that I’m lucky, because I met you tonight, and not someone who might want to rape me, or kill me, or kidnap me.”

On that note, I pause to observe how much Shizuo understood.

“I-”

“I’m sorry, you still don’t get it.” I interrupt softly. “Let me say it like this. You are putting yourself at a place too low, and me at a place too high. If it is Orihara Izaya I met tonight, I’m very sure I wouldn’t be able to handle myself against him. From the way you talk, you put yourself in the same group with him, whether you realize it or not. You’re-”

I catch the next phrase at the tip of my tongue. I don’t like the word “better”.

“-more normal. And  _ I’m  _ also only normal. An average person dealing with an average person rarely ever goes to the level of life and death.”

“You think I’m… normal?”

“I don’t see anything else tonight that makes me think otherwise.”

There is a long silence as we stand there, our shadows stretching away from the light of the street, parallel to each other, both pointing towards the dark office building.

“... I’ll think more about that.” 

Shizuo finally says. He scratches the back of his neck, the tension that I didn’t notice before eases, and I smile.

“So will I.”

I back away still facing Shizuo, raising a hand to wave my fingers.

“Good night, sweet dreams.”

“Night.”

The last glance I caught of Heiwajima Shizuo before I turn my back on him, he has a cigarette between his lips, a small flame of the lighter brightening up his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *In Japanese, people who are not familiar with each other usually calls the other person by their last name + san, as honorifics. First name is usually not called on first encounters.  
> *kuso(くそ）is one of the more common Japanese cuss words. In English, it would equal to "shit".  
> *お疲れ様(otsukaresama) is a term that I couldn't really find any replacement in English. It is usually said to other people after they've done hard work, or been through a hard time, so my personal understanding of the term is more of a politely comforting thing to say. If you look it up on Google translate, you'll see that they call it "Thank you." I don't really like that translation.


End file.
